


A Book is Not a Toy

by ifreet



Category: due South
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-17
Updated: 2006-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-10 12:21:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifreet/pseuds/ifreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlet for zeenell's prompt <i>Gen. Fraser "I once feed a walrus a book."</i>  Written for the 2006 out_of_contxt exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Book is Not a Toy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zeenell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeenell/gifts).



I was sometimes amazed at how rapidly fads swept through the precinct. When Tracy Jenkins visited Chicago, it meant numerous, oft unexpected people from the department suddenly claiming to be long term aficionados of country music. Even Turnbull was caught up in the fervor.

...

I suppose I might have expected Turnbull. His passions are as varied as they are strong.

The current fad, though, seemed to be for reading a particular author's books. And much like the country music fad, it was not enough simply to read the books -- one must be caught doing so. Having read one myself, I couldn't say that I quite understood the fascination. The particular novel I'd picked up was only passably written, substituting controversy for literary style and sensationalism for substance. I had to admit the plot device was clever, however the execution of the story itself -- well.

In any case, I was not completely surprised to find Ray reading at his desk. One leg bounced and jittered, the only manifestation of his often manic energy, as his eyes scanned back and forth across the page. I noted the cover and had the uncharitable thought that he could have picked better reading material, something we could discuss on the inevitable next stake-out. But regardless of my opinion of the particular book, I was unable to completely suppress the wince when Ray set his copy down as I approached, the book spread open face down, the desktop taking the place of a rude bookmark. Worse, he glanced up too soon for me to hide my automatic reaction.

"Give me a break, Frase," he said, rolling his eyes. "It's my book."

"Of course, Ray. Though, if you'll pardon my saying so, it makes very little sense to damage one's belongings simply because one owns them."

He rose from his chair, the better to make emphatic, full-body gestures as he spoke. "Look, it's just a book. I got curious, what with everyone and their cousin reading it. I even think I saw a copy in Stella's briefcase the other day. But I'm going to read it once and lose it or give it to someone, so I'm not going to worry about cracking the spine. I don't get that anyway, are the book police going to come check my shelves and revoke my reading license if I bend a corner? I don't think so. Write in it, bend the cover, dog ear the pages, long as I read it, what's the difference? It's just paper."

He abruptly deflated. "What am I saying, you've probably never mistreated a book in your life."

For some reason, that sounded like an insult. And within me arose the inexplicable desire to prove that I could mistreat books, even if I chose not to do so. "I once fed a book to a walrus. If that doesn't count as mistreatment, well, I don't know what does."

Ray simply stared at me for a moment, as though he wasn't sure what to do with that information, then shook his head sharply, though whether to clear it or in denial was unclear.

"I'm sure there were, whatsit, extenuating circumstances involved," he offered.

"Not really, no, Ray."

"You just up and decided to feed a book to a walrus."

"Essentially, yes." It was a bit embarrassing, but having brought it up I felt it necessary to explain. "You see, when I turned six, I really wanted a bulldozer. Well, a toy bulldozer. In any case, on the morning of my sixth birthday, my grandmother presented me with a beautifully wrapped box which seemed just big enough to contain one. A toy one. When I unwrapped and then opened the shipping box, I discovered, to my immense disappointment at the time, a book. Thomas Payne's _American Crisis_, to be exact."

"Your grandmother gave you _Thomas Payne_ when you were six?"

I nodded. I had eventually replaced the eaten copy with another out of my own pocket money, and how I'd wished I had not been so careless with the first. Though the replacement, too, was now lost to fire. "Of course, I didn't appreciate it at the time. So when I saw the walrus... well." I made gesture of my own, which I hoped evoked tossing a book to a walrus. Ray looked at me for a long moment, before steering the conversation to other, professional topics.

A week later, a bright yellow miniature bulldozer mysteriously appeared on my desk at the Consulate, adorned with a stick-on red bow. There was no note, but despite Turnbull's self-congratulatory grin and strict silence on the matter, I'm fairly certain I know who was responsible.


End file.
